Is it ok to let your baby eat off the floor at Starbuck's?

Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. Ok, maybe a little.

We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.

My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.

Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:

"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."

Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.

I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?

But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.

Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.

One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?

These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.

Oh, the joys of parenting!

New Blog

I knew I was jinxing myself with that last post! Because, of course, the moment I wrote that my daughter was an absolute, perfect angel, marked the beginnings of screaming through breakfast, pulling of hair and scratching of face, refusing, positively refusing, to let mommy change her diaper, spinning this way and that and insisting on going around with her bum "au naturel."

Sigh.

Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.

But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.

If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.

Back from Rome

Baby and I are back home - and feeling euphoric! I believe my new template reflects my mood: hummingbirds, little purple flowers in a green forest - speaking of which, everything is so verdant here! It's like, while I was away, the world seemed to wake up and don a new, beautiful, colourful dress it just couldn't resist buying as it presented itself, gorgeous and flowing, in a storefront window.

Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.

I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.

Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!

Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...

This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.

I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.

But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.

I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.

I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.

So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?

I'll keep you posted.  

What's with all the Nutella?

Here are a few odd bits and pieces of my observations on Rome, having been a "resident" here for two weeks now.

Where have all the good looking Romans gone?

Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.

Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.

I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.

When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.

It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)

So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.

Why all the ugly little dogs?

Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?

Tourists are, after all, the very worst.

And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.

Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.

Finally, what's with all the Nutella?

It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.

Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.

Viva La Cucina Italiana!

As I sat indulging in homemade Minestrone soup yesterday evening, slowly allowing my senses to fully experience the flavours, I could not help being amazed: I created this? Actually, it had everything to do with Italy. I really had no hand in it.

Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."

I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.

The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.  

I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.

Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.

In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.

In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.

For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.

The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.

Our Apartment in Rome

We live just outside the Vatican walls - on a street with impossibly narrow sidewalks called Via Aurelia.

The first time I walked on this street, I nearly experienced half a dozen heart attacks. The sidewalk is just wide enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. It winds down a hill, where cars, buses and trucks appear without warning from just around the next curve, driving a little too fast for my comfort. To make matters worse, the city has planted light posts in the very middle of the sidewalk, thus necessitating my circumnavigating them as skilfully as possible, driving the stroller on two wheels until I've made it past these infuriating obstacles.

On our seconde day in Rome, I found another street, with very wide sidewalks, that safely takes us down the hill. There is only one small downside to this seemingly wonderful find: a four-flight set of stairs at the end of it. 

Unfortunately these stairs are the only way to get, well, anywhere. If it's between the stairs and the panic-provoking sidewalk, I choose the stairs. Especially as each step is conveniently large enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. If I take it one step at a time, I can easily avoid a scene similar to that in the movie "The Untouchables," where a stroller makes its way, unrestrained, down a flight of stairs, making anyone watching want to scream: "The baby! Save the baby!" (though this scene was set in the middle of a gun fight, which is unlikely to happen here).

The street that leads to these stairs is the loveliest around our place. It is lined with trees, and here and there a plump gathering of rambling roses set along the edge of a stone wall fill the air with a musky scent. Iron gates offer a glimpse into courtyards graced with potted plants and laundry drying on a line. The most beautiful I've seen is one where a flight of stone steps, remisiscent of antiquity, leads up to a terrace.

One of my favorite buildings along this street is one of red and yellow brick, with green shutters and tall, narrow doors leading out to balconies with wrought iron railings.

Further down the street we are greeted by an awe-inspiring sight: behind the Vatican wall rises the cuppola of St. Peter's Basilica, shining like silver in the afternoon sun.

 Our apartment building, with white walls and dotted with balconies, stands nearly at the top of the hill, almost directly behind the Vatican. Glass doors open from the living room and one of the two bedrooms onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard. Scenes of Italy, painted on canvas or represented on colourful prints, adorn the walls inside. An old red wood cabinet with blue shelves and glass doors that lock with a vintage key is set against the wall by the kitchen. Pale blue and yellow, or royal crimson and gold curtains bestow on each bedroom either a Romantic or antique look.

Hardly a sound and rarely more than a breeze and the beautiful, rich song of a bird reaches us through our open windows. The area around our apartment is quiet and peaceful. At the very beginning of the street that leads to our building, an arched gateway looks into a small courtyard where on a pedestal stands a white marble figure of the Virgin Mary. Above the gate, carved on the arching wall, are the latin words "pax et bonum."

Peace and happiness.